


Taiwan Lace

by MsDay



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creeper Peter Hale, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 23:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20217946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsDay/pseuds/MsDay
Summary: Stiles just wants to feel pretty, of course Peter has to ruin it.





	Taiwan Lace

**Author's Note:**

> You have no idea how much I really, Really, REALLY hate the P-word. It was ridiculously difficult to type it out once so I could tag it. Now I feel like I need to go eat a bar of soap and scrub my whole body with steel wool...

He’d found the site by accident. Not a ‘whoops, I tripped and knocked over a glass’ accident, more a, ‘whoops, I started researching and fell into an information vortex and it’s been 16 hours and I forgot to feed myself’ accident. 

He’d been watching Criminal Minds, heard an interesting tidbit about the psychology of sexual sadism and decided to find out if it was true. That had lead to reading about the Marquis De Sade, which had lead to Leopold Von Sacher Masoch, which, in turn, had led him into the wonderful world of BDSM. Not that he’d never read about BDSM before, but coming at it from a psychological angle had given him a new perspective. 

He’d found a thread on a kink forum about what is and isn’t kink. It had started out seriously enough, ‘this is kink, this is abuse, this is why they aren’t the same’, but after a tasteless joke about using the whole chicken, it had kind of devolved from there. The thread was 36 pages long, so after the third ‘LOL chicken!’ post, he’d skipped to the end. 

On the last page, there was a picture. A picture of a man from pecs to thighs, his shirt unbuttoned and his jeans pulled down just enough to expose the red, silky, lacy underwear he was wearing. And, woof. He didn’t care about the thread anymore, about the question posted with the picture, asking if this was kink, about the responses further down the page. All he cared about was the hair covering that toned chest, trailing down those abs and disappearing into the lace trim on those sinfully tight undies. Even the glasses the guy held just in frame were doing it for him. 

He’d done it more for curiosity’s sake than any desire to try it himself. He’d wanted more pictures, more fuel for his fantasies, more deposits in his spank bank. And if he could find any manips of Jeremy Renner or Tom Hardy, so much the better. 

Whenever he’d heard or read about men in lace undies, he’d always thought they were underwear made for women. He’d thought that they were shoving their junk into a piece of fabric with no room to accommodate. He shouldn’t’ve been surprised, really, that a visit to duckduckgo would produce page after page after page of websites dedicated to lacy, silky, satiny underthings designed for people with penises. He also shouldn't've been surprised when, that same day, he refilled his pre-payed credit card so he could try them out for himself. It’s not like his Dad would ever find them in the laundry; he thinks his Dad has touched the washer half a dozen times since they got the thing, when they moved into the house, almost five years before his Mom died.

He’d checked the tracking number multiple times a day for the four days the package had been in transit. Coach had even taken his phone during one of his more enthusiastic lectures on why barter systems can never adequately serve a society of more than a few thousand people. 

In the end, the package had been delivered. He’d opened it and nearly died in his haste to get up the stairs so he could try them on in the privacy of his own bedroom. He’d had to stop halfway through his haul to watch a few cat videos, long enough for Little Stiles to deflate a bit. 

He was careful at first, only wearing them in his room, when his Dad wasn’t home and he knew Scott was off chasing whichever tail Kira had deigned to flick at him. He was a teenager, yes, but even 17-year-olds are flaccid sometimes. 

The first time he’d worn them under jeans had been out of necessity, rather than choice. His Dad was supposed to be working a double; he was supposed to be out all night. Stiles had been laying in bed, on his stomach, grinding absentmindedly on his sheets while mostly concentrating on the math homework he’d been putting off all week. The only thing he’d been wearing was a pair of briefs, covered all over with frills. Rows and rows of frills. They were his favorite pair, they made his ass look amazing. 

He had been listening to music and hadn’t heard his Dad pull up, hadn’t heard him call out, hadn’t heard him make his way up the stairs. He’d seen the movement out of the corner of his eye, the slight readjusting of the door that meant it was opening. He’d yelled ‘naked’ almost at the top of his lungs and even over the music, he could hear the panic in his own voice. He’d yanked off the headphones and jumped into the jeans he’d worn to school that day as his dad had explained, from the other side of the door, that he’d just wanted to let Stiles know that he was home early.

Stiles was downstairs 45 seconds later, cooking. 

He could feel the lace shift against his skin as he moved, could feel everything snug in the undies, nestled up close and completely enveloped. It was a different feeling than just wearing the underwear on their own. More intense, snug, but not tight. The frills had helped to fill out the seat of his jeans and when he caught his reflection in the glass of the back door, he couldn’t stop staring. He knew he was blushing furiously, couldn’t look his Dad in the eye. He probably thought that he’d caught Stiles mid-stroke, and, honestly, Stiles didn’t mind that, he wasn’t about to set his Dad straight. After all, it’s not like his Dad didn’t choke the chicken, sometimes. And that thought was enough to kill the boner he’d been trying to keep at bay since he’d come downstairs. 

As happens with things like this, Stiles had gotten lax in his self-imposed rules. He’d started wearing them around the house, under his jeans, sweats or sleep pants. Started wearing them to bed. Started wearing them when his dad was home. Eventually, he wore them to school, too. Never on practice days, but if he knew he wouldn’t be taking off his clothes that day, he would wear his little undies. He’d even considered quitting track so he could wear them more often. He just felt so pretty, so cute, so fuckable.

He’d had a drawer of boxers, briefs, and boxer briefs, but they were quickly becoming less and less desirable to him. He’d had to pair down that part of his wardrobe to accommodate his new obsession. Really, it was overdue. He’d started with a few pairs of undies, so he’d thrown out all of his underwear with holes in them. Then he’d bought more undies and moved onto underwear with stains or bleach spots. Then he’d bought more undies and moved onto underwear with loose threads or missing buttons or stretched elastic. By the end of it, his top drawer was full of lace, polyester satin, and frills. He’d only kept a handful of the ‘boy’ underwear he’d worn less and less often; he now only had his novelty boxers, four pairs, and one pair of white briefs, which were perfect for forays into the woods to fight the newest Big Bad. 

Stiles is convinced that Derek changes the thermostat before pack meetings, makes it super fucking cold so they won’t be tempted to linger. He’s so busy thinking about his nipples, which are about to fall off, and lamenting the fact that he’d forgotten they were going to Derek’s right after school and so, had worn a pair of light pink, low-rise briefs with lace panels on each hip, that he misses the pairing off of the group for the upcoming search of the preserve. Misses the way Peter talks circles around Scott, convincing him that he wants Stiles out searching, too. Misses the way he makes Scott think that it would be best if the two of them are paired. Misses the way Scott apologizes to Peter, telling him that he’s the alpha and he thinks that Peter should pair with Stiles. Misses the way Peter smirks and Derek rolls his eyes.

He comes back to the present when everyone starts moving; getting up and pairing off. Scott is talking to Isaac, they’re probably going together, then. OK. He looks around. “You’re with me,”comes from behind him. He jumps and turns to face Peter. 

“Perfect,” He rolls his eyes.

Peter just smiles his condescending ‘I know something you don’t know’ smile, “we’re going to the South West corner of the preserve. Don’t worry,” he leans in and lowers his voice, “I don’t think we’ll run into anything nefarious.”

“’Nefarious’, really?” Stiles rolls his eyes, “whatever, come on, we’re taking Roscoe.” He turns and walks away.

“Of course.” Peter follows close behind.

The drive is quiet. There’s not much to say. 

When they get to the South West corner of the preserve, Stiles nearly falls over a root or a rock or something, which, ow, but Peter grabs him around his middle, saving him from scraped hands if not a scraped face, too. “Careful,” he purrs in Stiles ear as he pulls him in close. “I’d hate to see you bruised and bloody on your knees.” Except that he says it in a way that suggests he’d like nothing more. 

Stiles grabs Peter’s hands and peels them off of his middle, “I’m sure. You’re such a good guy, after all.” Peter doesn’t fight him as he steps away, keeps walking. “I say we split up, I’ll go this way,” he points in front of himself, “you go that way,” he points off to the side, very far away from himself. 

“I was paired with you to keep you safe, how can I do that from way over there?” Stiles jumps and spins away; why is he so close? When did he get so close? Why is he so close!?

“Are you going out for some creepiness award, are you upset that I haven’t called you ‘creeperwolf’ in a while? I can start doing that again.” He turns back to the trees, “I’m going this way,” he walks.

He can hear Peter following him and that makes him uncomfortable. If he can hear Peter, it’s because he’s intentionally making noise. For Stiles benefit. Why is he doing that? He walks a little faster. So does Peter.

A few minutes later, he can’t take it anymore, “why are you being loud?” Peter just hums at him. “You’re usually quieter than this, you’re being loud. Why?” 

Peter shoots him a condescending look, “I would hate to startle you.” Then he fucking leers. 

“Creeperwolf.” 

Stiles drops Peter off at the loft. They don’t linger, don’t say goodbye, Stiles doesn’t wait to make sure that Peter gets to his car. He drives away as soon as the passenger door is closed, though he does it slowly so as not to run Peter down. Not because he doesn’t want to hurt Peter, but because running him over wouldn’t kill him and then he’d be mad at Stiles. He’s already been on Peter’s shit list, he doesn’t want to be back on it. 

It’s after two when Stiles gets home. His Dad is home, but the lights are off, probably sleeping, then. He doesn’t bother to skip the third step from the top, the one that squeaks. He also doesn’t bother to do up his jeans after a stop in the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth, though not at the same time. 

It takes him a second, after turning on his bedroom light, to register that Peter is sitting at his desk. It takes him another second after that, to register that that’s weird. He spins around so fast that he overbalances and falls into the door, effectively blocking himself in his room with Peter. “What are you doing here?” he all but shouts. 

Peter brings a finger to his lips, “don’t want to wake up Daddy,” he says quietly as he stands. 

Stiles rights himself and opens his mouth to speak. Before he can get anything out, Peter is in front of him, a hand on the door beside his head. Stiles brings his hands up to push Peter away, before he gets very far, Peter grabs his hands and pins them above his head with one hand. Shit. This would be really hot if it weren’t Peter Fucking Hale. “What-”

“I couldn’t tell, at first,” Peter speaks over him, “if you were doing it on purpose or not. You dropped your pen, earlier, did you even notice?” He rests his hand on Stiles’ side and his brain short circuits. What the fuck is happening right now? “The thing about wearing trousers that are too big, is that they tend to slip fairly low when you bend over to pick up the things you’ve dropped,” he slides his hand down to Stiles hip and his grin is feral.

Undone, his jeans are lower than they usually would be, but he’s still wearing his shirt. He’s covered, he knows he is. He doesn’t know about earlier, though. He really hopes that Peter is talking about a peek of skin and not pink lace. “It was a pencil.” 

“My mistake. You dropped your pencil.” He slides his hand lower, then brings it back up and Stiles only realizes what he’s doing when he feels Peter’s skin on his. He squirms and tries to pull his hands away, but Peter just steps closer, pressing himself against Stiles. “I really should be commended. Do you know how difficult it was not to bend you over that table and just,” he pushes his hand into Stiles jeans and takes a handful of his ass, pulling his lower half off of the door and straight into Peter. 

Stiles’ mouth drops open; he can’t believe Peter is doing this, can’t believe anyone would. His heart beat is loud in his ears and he can feel himself going hot all over. He thinks that Peter grabbed his bare ass, but then, Peter curls his fingers under the lace trim, and pulls up. Weirdest wedgie ever. He leaves the underwear up high and rubs down Stiles cheek again. He feels Peter rub his face over Stiles’ temple and, what. What is he supposed to do? What the fuck is going on?

Then, Peter’s hand is out of his jeans and he’s dropped Stiles’ hands. He feels the door open and has a second to panic before he sees that Peter is the one who opened it. “I’ll see you at the next meeting, Stiles.” He has to jump out of the way or get hit with the door. When he steadies himself, he’s alone in his room.

Stiles has had three days without Peter. Three days to obsess over what happened, to convince himself that it was some sort of fever dream or hallucination. Three days to accept that it wasn’t and then re-convince himself that it was. 

He’s mostly past the panic and moved onto the dread. The wondering. The waiting. What is Peter going to do with what he knows? Is he going to tell people? Is he going to blackmail him? Is he going to demand favors for his silence? Peter seems like the kind of asshole who would bleed Stiles dry and then tell everyone anyway. 

He has to pull over on his way home from school. True, he’s mostly past the panic, but it still creeps up on him, usually when he’s driving and can’t distract himself with anything. He breathes through it, calls himself some very mean names, rubs his hands over his face and gets back on the road. 

There’s a package waiting for him. He doesn’t see it, trips over it when he tries to go into the house. When he picks it up, he sees that his name is on it. It’s light. He smiles, more undies. He pauses. He didn’t order any more undies. He looks at the box again. There’s nothing to indicate where it came from, some generic, discreet shipping name on the line marked ‘sender’.

He checks his phone, it’s Tuesday. His dad is working right now, but he’ll be home in a few hours. He’ll have to start cooking soon, if he wants his Dad to eat something healthy for dinner. He takes the box upstairs and tries to put it under his bed. It doesn’t fit so he puts it in the closet. That’s fine. This is fine. It’s probably nothing. Maybe he forgot that he ordered something. Maybe something was backlogged. 

He puts some chicken and rice on to cook, then goes back to his room. “Fuck it.” he pulls out the package and puts it on his desk, grabs his scissors and opens the fucking thing. It’s not undies. He brings the box to his bed and dumps the contents. There are six packs within the package. They’re thigh high tights. And garter belts. Shit. A black and white striped garter belt and a dark teal, lacey, very high waisted garter belt. There are four pairs of thigh highs. One pair with a back seam, one with stripes, one fishnet and one a light skin tone with a big bow at the top of each. 

He steps back from the bed and everything on it. How is this his life? He didn’t order these. He’d been holding out hope, but really, he knew he didn’t order this package. He knows who did, though, doesn’t he. He can send them back? Maybe? 

He rushes forward and throws everything back in the box. He doesn’t have to return them, he can just throw them out. But. He looks down at the garter belt in his hand. It looks nice. He has a pair of black satin cheekies that would- No. He throws it in the box. He’s not accepting this. He’ll take them to the thrift store and make some accountant husband very happy. 

There’s a note stuck to one of the packs of tights. It’s thick card stock, a dark purple, curly border around the edges, the font designed to mimic cursive. _No need to thank me. Don’t wear the stripes with the stripes. -P_

He’s going to kill that man. 

He ends up keeping the package.


End file.
